


The Fold

by chainofclovers



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 21:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16689571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: There are at least twenty pillows on the guest bed at Teddie’s house: a stack of several full-sized pillows per person, all of varying firmness, and throw pillows edged with piping, or edged with ruffles, and one small pillow printed with navy blue stars and shaped like a goose that Grace despises above all the rest.





	The Fold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kathryne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/gifts).



> Just barely squeezing this little birthday fic into Scorpio season. Happy (belated) birthday, K.

“The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity. I like—but I must not run on in this way. That cupboard there—you say it holds clean table-napkins only; but what if Sir Archibald Bodkin were concealed among them?”

— Virginia Woolf, _A Room of One’s Own_

 

There are at least twenty pillows on the guest bed at Teddie’s house: a stack of several full-sized pillows per person, all of varying firmness, and throw pillows edged with piping, or edged with ruffles, and one small pillow printed with navy blue stars and shaped like a goose that Grace despises above all the rest. Grace knows it amuses Frankie that Teddie, who scorns fun clothes and novelty songs and clutter, has a semi-secret decorative pillow addiction. But every night they go through the routine of putting most of the pillows on the floor, and every morning it takes Grace a long time to arrange the pillows on top of the smoothed covers, even when Frankie helps. (Sometimes it takes longer when Frankie helps.) It’s a reminder that bookends each day: _You don’t live here. You’re borrowing somebody else’s space._

The new routine isn’t terrible. Teddie teaches most days, and Grace and Frankie try their best to work and paint in cramped quarters. In the evenings the three of them eat together. If Teddie cooks dinner, Grace volunteers herself and Frankie for dish duty, and after they’ve cleaned up they all drink decaf or a cocktail and make pleasant conversation until it’s a reasonable time to retire to the bedrooms, and no one minds the time spent together, and no one minds parting ways.

-

In bed on the third night at Teddie’s house, Frankie sits pressed against Grace’s side and they browse Netflix on Grace’s iPad. One way or another, they’ve been away from home for a long time, and now that they’re here they seek out both closeness and distraction without discussion. It’s the best part of the day: sitting alone together, deciding to look in on someone else’s life, deciding which life to choose. But tonight Frankie keeps starting videos by mistake, and Grace can’t tame a smile at the sight of her exasperation, at the utter randomness which which she approaches technology. She takes Frankie’s hand, uses Frankie’s fingers to swipe at a different part of the interface. “Like this,” she says. She squints at the screen. “Because you know I’m not gonna watch _Adam Sandler: 100% Fresh._ ” 

Frankie rotates her hand within Grace’s lose grip, squeezes her fingers. Turns to look at her. “I love you,” Frankie says softly. “I’ll love you for the rest of our lives.” 

It should be an earthquake, hearing this, but everything’s quiet and still. Grace lays the iPad flat on her lap and turns to look at Frankie. “I love you, too.”

“Always?”

Grace’s heart pounds. “Always.”

“Wherever we end up?”

“Yes.”

It isn’t new love, but there’s something new within it, and Grace lies awake that night long past Netflix and goodnights and Frankie’s minutes-long settling in process. She’s giddy in spite of herself, giddy the way she used to feel at twenty or twenty-one, waiting for the weekend that would bring a date she just knew would turn things around for her. Here it is again, except this time she can actually imagine what’s going to happen. Her hope has a tangible conclusion. She feels _promised_ , somehow, like they’ve sealed up a beginning and ending all in one. Somehow, though her feelings about marriage (never again) haven’t changed, and though they’ve never kissed, never even talked about it, she feels _betrothed_. 

In the morning she feels like an idiot.

She’s wide awake many minutes before the alarm, working herself into a stomach ache because she’s so silly to have assumed anything had really changed. She heard wrong. She misunderstood. Finally, she convinces herself to reach for Frankie’s shoulder, leaves her hand there until Frankie starts to stir. She pulls back then, but only a little. “What did you mean last night?” she whispers. “When you said—what you said. What we both said.” She winces. 

“That I love you.” Frankie’s eyes are still shut.

“You love a lot of people.” 

Frankie looks at her. She’s as awake as Grace now. “Not like you.”

-

That afternoon, Nick calls to invite Grace to a house closing. “Thank God you picked up,” he says. “It took a hell of a lot of negotiation, which I handled entirely myself, no outsourcing whatsoever, but I'm buying your house from the kids’ buyer.”

It’s a phone call, a bad connection, an infinite distance. At first, Nick thinks the silence means she’s crying tears of joy. “It’s okay,” Nick says. “You’re worth it. More than worth it.” He went without due diligence. No dollar amount too great. Piles of cash to close. The final repairs start Monday, and will take only days to complete. He can talk about money so easily.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” Grace says when she can speak again. 

She’s never been possessionless. Never. But there was a moment on the beach when it felt like she had only Frankie. Only a person. And that moment burned into her, left her pure. 

“Grace—” Nick’s voice is tunnel-deep, and strange against her ears.

It’s a monstrous gift. A monster of a gift, she means. A really massive gift. Not wanting it feels cruel. 

“I didn’t ask for any of this.”

-

Frankie was out with Teddie when Nick called. When she comes back, Grace pulls her into the guest room and sits her down on the bed and tells her right away. “I’m so mad,” she says. She’s desperate, the house itself such a tiny thing now. “I’ll make him sell it to us for twenty dollars, ten from you, ten from me. Or we’ll get your name on the closing documents. Or we won’t move back at all, we’ll just—bother Teddie forever. Or buy something reasonable.” 

Frankie pulls the star-printed goose out from under her ass and growls at it. She flops back against the pillow-laden bed and neglects to respond to Grace’s dismal Choose Your Own Adventure. Instead, she demands to know why someone would buy the world’s most perfect house only to sell it immediately. 

Money, Grace explains. It’s obvious. Money, and maybe the first buyer didn’t love the house yet. Money, and it doesn’t matter if they loved it already. There was enough money on the table to make them willing to find some other place to love.

Frankie looks up at Grace, who still sits ramrod straight on the edge of the bed. Grace realizes Frankie wants her to lie down too, even though it’s the middle of the day and there’s nothing resembling necessity (a place to sleep in a small house) to compel them together. She lies down on her side, facing Frankie. Makes her own necessity out of an ingredient other than circumstance. For once. The pillows make for an uneven place to land. “I didn’t ask him to do this.”

“I know,” Frankie says. She brushes a finger along the sleeve of Grace’s sweater. “And you don’t owe him anything, either.”

“Yeah,” Grace says, like she already knew that. But she believes it as soon as she’s agreed. Not Owing is right there holding Not Asking’s hand.

Frankie concludes the matter: if a rich man wants to give Grace a house, that’s just another way of getting home.

-

Late that night Frankie sets her book down on the nightstand, but instead of turning off her lamp and lying down, she peers at Grace and clears her throat. “So, um. What would you be doing right now if I was your boyfriend?”

“Missionary.”

They laugh.

“Wrong question, then,” says Frankie. 

The right question goes unsaid. But Frankie takes off the pullover cable-knit sweater she’s stolen from Teddie, glances to the side, rolls up the sleeves of her long-sleeved undershirt, pulls her braided hair away from her neck. _For me_ , Grace thinks, and the thought might knock her flat. 

Months ago, Grace told Frankie she had beautiful skin. The soft warmth of it landed permanently in her memory; Frankie always covers up, but Grace’s brain has never let her forget the knowledge of what’s beneath all that flowy fabric. Tonight Frankie’s as uncovered in front of Grace as she’s ever been, flashing incident included. The flashing was about Frankie’s own bravado—proof of personality—and not about her skin. Now Frankie radiates tension, so palpable it isn’t far from fear.

Grace touches her safely, slowly, with long meandering loops. She rubs her back, feels heat through the fabric. Visits her skin each time a loop lands against her neck or the bare parts of her arms. She scoots so she’s sitting closer, leans in until her breath lands on Frankie’s neck. Frankie shivers. “It’ll be good to be home,” Grace says. “To have that freedom.”

Frankie nods. “Let me sleep with you when we get home.” 

_For the rest of our lives_. “I’d like that.” She screws up her courage, plants a kiss at a spot with both fabric and skin, and Frankie gasps. 

“God,” Frankie says. 

Grace tries it again, lingers this time, sighs against her. “I can’t wait.”

Frankie giggles. “Same here, but don’t you think we should, though? Wait? Until we move? Not, you know, that we aren’t technically sleeping together, because we absolutely are, I mean, I don’t know about you but I only see one bed here, but—”

“Hey,” Grace says. “I’m nervous too. And your sister’s house is weird. I get it.” She reaches her arms around Frankie, clasps her hands together. They don’t have enough time, but there’s no point in rushing, either. 

Frankie breathes out. “Okay.” She reaches for her lamp, placing a hand over Graces’ so her hold on Frankie survives the reach. Grace’s light is off already, and they lie quietly together in the dark.

-

When they’ve settled on a date to move back to the house, Grace calls Brianna for the first time in weeks. “Hi, honey,” she says when Brianna picks up, more habit than sentiment.

“...hi?”

“Nick bought the beach house from your buyer. We move back in a week from yesterday.” For all that Brianna feigns independence from family, if Brianna knows, everyone will know, and that’s what Grace wants.

“Whoa. You and Nick?”

“ _No!_ Me and Frankie.”

Brianna sighs. “Okay,” she says. Maybe she won’t get more of an apology than that, but the lack of argument is nearly as good as one.

-

There are worse ways to begin a birthday than with coffee and a book and a blanket on a comfortable couch. In most respects, Teddie and Frankie couldn’t be more different, but neither is a morning person, and Grace might as well have the house to herself. Weekend mornings are her one chance to be alone, and she loves them for that reason. She especially loves this one, because from the moment she woke up and slid out of Frankie’s loose grip, she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about her plans for the day. She’s seventy-five years old, which would be horrifying except she and Frankie are going to spend the afternoon making pot brownies in lieu of a cake, and then they’re going on a date to a restaurant (it’s so odd, it’s so perfect, it’s something to look forward to, something she knows will happen, and yet anything could happen, and that’s just as nice), and when they get back to the house they’re going to eat pot brownies and beg Teddie to try one too. Grace is pretty sure she, not Frankie, will be the one who gets Teddie to cave.

By the time she’s ready for a second cup of coffee she can hear Teddie moving around the house, so she folds the blanket neatly and lays it along the back of the couch before she heads into the kitchen. She’s on her way out when Teddie’s on her way in. “Morning,” she says.

Teddie smiles. “Happy birthday,” she says, but her eyes are distracted. It’s the blanket. She crosses the room, picks up the sharp-cornered rectangle and refolds it into a triangle, lays it back down so the side with both acute angles hugs the top of the couch and the right angle hangs down the back. 

“Wow,” Grace says before she can stop herself. She’s pretty fucking good at folding things; this is a first. She expects Teddie to cringe apologetically and is disappointed.

Grace takes her time in the kitchen. Pours her second cup of coffee, pauses in front of the little shelf in the pantry with her and Frankie’s groceries, tries to decide if she should eat something now or wait for Frankie. 

“There you are!” It’s Frankie’s voice behind her. She turns, and there’s Frankie, wrapped in the stupid couch blanket like a queen with a cloak. “It’s November," she hisses. "Does she have the fucking air conditioner running?” 

“I think it’s just cold because—”

“Oh my God, happy birthday!” Frankie beams and swishes forward, grabs Grace by the shoulders, risks upending the coffee. She kisses her on the mouth. “Happy birthday,” she says again. Kisses her again, and Grace smiles against her lips, feels the still-secret promise everywhere. “This time tomorrow, we’ll almost be home.”


End file.
